


i'm asking you (what you know about these things)

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 08:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10158338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Sansa has never been any great shakes at relationships, a fact which is relentlessly pointed out by her family and friends at every social gathering. It doesn't help that the remedy to Sansa's bad luck just happens to be in attendance at those social gatherings. After all, what could Jon Snow and his perfectly good heart want with her?(title from "how will i know," by whitney houston: sam smith cover)





	

When Sansa had received the gold-leaf invitation to celebrate Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon’s spring wedding, her expectations were high. She had known Loras since high school—indeed, she was best friends with his sister Margaery to this day, five years after their graduation—and as such she had come to know the Tyrells to be the most extravagant of families. As a young woman with equally lavish tastes, Sansa had gotten on with them famously.

While never quite so bold or, at times, rather outlandish as Margaery and Loras, because of their influence Sansa had gained a sense of poise and sophistication well beyond that of her own family. That’s not to say that the Starks were not held in high esteem. But Catelyn Stark had always said that while all of her children had been born with silver spoons in their mouths, her eldest daughter had grown up to fashion hers into a crown. Sansa had once taken offense to that, thinking her mother meant to make a materialistic fool of her, but as she grew older she gained a better perspective.

Not one among their elite set did not have a taste for the finer things—not even her younger sister, Arya, much as she would like to pretend otherwise—and Sansa simply accepted her good fortune and used it to do good by herself and others. Margaery felt the need to point this out at every availability, usually when Sansa showed up to a social event with a less-than reputable beau on her arm. Which, even Sansa can admit in retrospect, is often. Loras’ wedding is no exception, although Sansa has yet to look at it in hindsight.  

“For god’s sake, Sansa,” Margaery says from her spot next to Sansa at the reception hall’s bar, “you’re like some sort of superhero. You head a nonprofit downtown, make your own clothes—which look fabulous on you, by the way, but I must confess I give myself some credit when it comes to your taste. Not to mention your posture.”    

Sansa lifts her champagne flute. “I wouldn’t dare begrudge you the honor. I could never stand this straight if your grandmother hadn’t paraded us around the parlor with the Oxford English Dictionary on our heads every afternoon. Although to be honest, I still don’t know how that was supposed to help, and yet…”

“Here we are,” Margaery agrees, and clinks her glass against Sansa’s.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the praise,” Sansa says once they’ve both taken long pulls of champagne, “because you know how I love my laundry list of accomplishments, but what’s your point?”

“My point, dearest, is that for all your success and vivacity, you really can be uncommonly stupid when it comes to men.” Margaery hits her with her patented withering stare (another inheritance from her rather foreboding grandmother). “Harry Hardyng, Sansa? Really? Of all the eligible bachelors vying for your attention, you go for the ponce who can’t keep it in his pants.”

Sansa sighs and looks across the crowded, gold-and-white room to where her escort and boyfriend, Harry, is chatting up the Stone sisters. She can’t deny Harry’s penchant for flirting and reputation for straying, but all the same…

“He’s not all bad, Margaery,” she assures her friend.

“Mhmm.” Margaery doesn’t try to hide that she’s not buying it. “You know what I think your problem is, Sansa?”

“I daresay you’re about to tell me.”

“You have a type, and you’re too stubborn to divert from it,” Margaery continues, ignoring the sarcasm. “It’s all blonde beauties with dimpled chins and lots of teeth. I think you know well enough that though they may look like your fairy-tale prince, they certainly don’t act the part.”

 _Jesus_ , Sansa thinks, but she’s too polite and not nearly drunk enough to say it aloud. She swirls her champagne and watches it spin about the glass. “Fairy-tales aren’t real. I’ve learned that much by now.”

“So, what, Harry’s some sort of consolation prize that you’ll settle for because you don’t think you deserve better?”

“I thought I was invited to your brother’s wedding, not an impromptu therapy session.”  

Margaery laughs a bit at that. She knows she’s being invasive, just as well as she knows that it’s precisely what Sansa needs. “I’m sorry, darling, but if I don’t tell you what you need to hear, who will?”

“Hmm, let’s see… Arya, Robb, Bran, Rickon,” Sansa says, ticking the names off her fingers, “my parents, although perhaps not in so many words. Aunt Lysa, if what I need to hear’s a good insult. Gendry, even, if Arya elbows him in the ribs, although he’ll just repeat whatever she tells him to. He certainly takes it in stride.”

“Perhaps you should be taking relationship advice from Arya, then,” Margaery suggests airily. “Who is that she’s always telling you to date?”

“Oh, she reckons Jon fancies me,” Sansa says as though it’s nothing, but there’s a flutter in her stomach nonetheless. “I’ve told her a thousand times that he’s only nice to me the way he’s nice to… well, everyone, really.”

“Nice to look at, too,” Margaery remarks, her eyes across the room now. “Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Snow.”

Sansa follows her friend’s gaze to see Jon standing with her father and brother, his eyes already on her. She feels her face warm at his smile, one she freely returns as she thinks that yes, Jon sure fills out that suit nicely. Not that she would say so to Margaery, who would be far too smug if Sansa were to cave and admit it.

“He’s been staring at you for five minutes at least, by the way,” Margaery informs her matter-of-factly. “I’m willing to bet it’s been since we walked in, but I only just noticed him a few moments ago.”

“Maybe I have something in my teeth.”

“You haven’t eaten all day,” Margaery reminds her. “Although I’m quite sure he’s been staring at your mouth, anyway. He thinks he’s so slick, but I can tell when he talks to you.”

“He hasn’t even spoken to me yet.”

Margaery rolls her eyes. “Every time we have a get-together, that boy winds up whisking you away in his dreamy eyes and you’re no good to anybody for days afterwards. And yes, my sweet, unassuming girl, he absolutely cannot help himself from looking at your mouth whenever you speak to him. I’m sure he goes to confession the next day to rid himself of such sinful thoughts—”

“Margaery, you’re being hyperbolic again.”

“Not so.” Margaery pokes her and takes another drink. “I’ve never known such a polite man in my life. Even Renly has a tendency to be lewd about women, and he’s not even attracted to any of us.”

“You know my brothers.”

“Robb’s a lech, Bran is an old man trapped in a young boy’s body, and Rickon is twelve so he doesn’t count.”

“Robb is not a _lech_ —” Sansa begins to argue.

“He slapped my arse this morning.”

“Oh, he did not.”

“No, he really did.”   

“He did,” a third voice chimes in, and Sansa and Margaery turn to see that Jon had joined them at the bar. He offers a sheepish smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but Theon gave him five quid to hit on Margaery, and Robb took it a bit too literally.”

“Five quid?” Margaery echoes, aghast. “Excuse me, but am I to believe that my arse is only worth _five quid_?”

Self-conscious under Margaery’s unyielding glare, Jon clears his throat and adjusts the collar of his shirt. “Erm… Theon doesn’t keep much money on him. He’d rather max out his credit cards.”

Margaery sniffs haughtily into her champagne. “Well, then, he should have offered Robb the credit card. In fact—” she drains her glass— “I’m going to go tell him that right now. Have fun, darlings.”

Sansa makes a sound of protest, but Margaery’s already departed with a wink over her shoulder. Jon’s gaze flicks between them and he wonders… But no. He won’t let himself run away with wild hope. He’d seen Sansa arrive with Harry Hardyng, after all; Margaery was only trying to stir up some good-natured trouble, as she’s wont to do.    

Even so, when Sansa turns back to him and smiles, Jon can’t help but grin back at her. It’s a bit easier to ignore the restless feeling in his stomach when Sansa’s eye meets his. He’s never been sure how she can ground him and trip him up at all once, but he’s hardly known it to be any other way.

“The DJ started ten minutes ago and Margaery’s already about to cause a scene,” Sansa says. “It’s going to be an early night.”

“Doubtful with this crowd.” Jon touches her elbow and leans in to kiss her cheek. “Hi, Sansa.”

“Good to see you, Jon.” She tries not to shudder at the pleasant, slight scrape of his stubble against her skin. _You’re here with someone_ , she reminds herself sternly, although like hell Harry would notice a thing. “How’ve you been?”

“Not bad.” _Better now that I’ve seen you._ “Business is good—better than I thought, actually, although I can’t say so to Sam without him telling me he told me so. We were able to pay your dad’s loan back about three months ahead.”

“Well, not to repeat Sam, but…” She gives a little shrug. “I told you that dive bars were popular when you panicked and thought you were way in over your head.”

“Oh, right, thanks for the reminder.” Jon chuckles, and Sansa loves the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. She’d kick herself if she weren’t so worried about snagging her tights. Although it would serve her right for shopping at pricey boutiques and crushing on a guy she didn’t come here with.

But that’s the way it is with Jon—Sansa can’t quite remember a time when she wasn’t a little crazy about him. It had never meant anything, not really. Jon was just the guy who was always around. He’d helped teach her to ride a bike, and later a car. She used to wrangle him and Robb into games of dress-up, and ten years later Jon had waited patiently while she tried on one prom dress after the next and then the first one again. He’d called her boyfriends idiots when things didn’t work out, and he bought her chips and shakes when she cried over it. He’d been soft with her, always.

Sansa had always known ease and security, but Jon made her feel it beyond all the parties and creature comforts. Even in her shallow adolescence, he had thought her sweet. So she was a little bit in love with him—sue her. It’s harmless, isn’t it?

That is, until Arya and Margaery started putting ideas in her head. But Sansa’s determined to brush them aside. It was one thing to get dumped by a guy in their wide social circle, but quite another to be rejected by such a close family friend that he practically _was_ family. Sansa has never been reckless enough to dive in like that.

“So,” Jon says as he hands her a fresh glass of champagne, “Harry Hardyng, is it?”

“Oh, don’t you start on me, too.” Sansa glances around for Harry, only to find him on the dance floor with one of the Tyrell cousins. He’s barely looked her way this evening, but Sansa won’t admit it out loud. He’s just… sociable. “I’ve already heard an earful from Margaery.”

“I’ve heard the same from Robb and Arya,” Jon confesses. “They don’t like him.”

“Robb and Arya don’t like someone I’m dating, imagine that.” Sansa raises her eyebrows. “And what do you think?”

Jon shrugs, grins. “I’m too polite to say.”

Truly, if Jon weren’t every bit as courteous as Margaery had said he was, he would have smashed a bottle over Hardyng’s fat head already. Sansa may not notice, she may ignore it, but Jon can’t fathom what Harry’s doing, wasting his smiles on anyone else when he could have Sansa by his side. Instead, he’s ignoring her, preferring to act as though he’d come stag so he can leave with whomever he likes. That was the guy’s reputation, but Sansa had the tendency to see past that to whatever she wanted to see. Her faith in people was admirable; Jon only wished it didn’t go too far, but it always did.

Sansa’s eyes are back on Harry and his dance partner. Jon doesn’t bother looking their way; rather, he studies Sansa’s face as she talks.

“He likes to have a bit of fun, that’s all,” she explains, without sounding like she believes it herself. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter. We’re not much of ‘a thing,’ you know? I don’t intend to marry him or anything. He can’t make me look stupid if I don’t take him seriously.”

She turns to catch Jon staring at her. He smiles—a small, almost sad upturn of his lips—and his gaze drops.

“Look, I won’t badger you about it,” he says, all apologies. “Frankly I don’t give two shits about Harry Hardyng. I came over here to talk to you. I’m wasting my breath on that—well— _him_. So anyway,” he continues before Sansa can interject with a thanks, “you look phenomenal.”

Sansa laughs. “Sometimes I think you and Margaery are more alike than I’d ever expect. Between giving me a hard time about my love life and all the hyperbole—”

“Telling you the truth is not hyperbolic, and I resent the implication,” Jon says with some feigned indignation. Because of course she looks phenomenal, in her loose fishtail braid and black lace dress—she’d look phenomenal in nothing but one of his T-shirts, too, but Jon takes a pull of his wine rather than say such things. “You just like that word.”

“I do, it’s a funny word.”       

Before Jon can tease her further—fine, before he can flirt with her more—Harry decides to show up. Of course he does. Jon wonders how long he could have monopolized Sansa’s time before Harry felt such a disturbance in the force.

“Hey, San. Wanna dance?”

“About time,” Jon mutters into his glass, loud enough for only Sansa to hear.

She shoots him a sardonic little smile. “I’ll catch you later, Jon. Save me a dance?”

“You know I don’t dance, why would you subject me to such humiliation?”

“Have a few more drinks and talk to me later.” She winks at him, much in the same way Margaery had at her earlier, although Jon suspects there’s more to this one. He hopes as much. Whatever his hopes may be, he watches Sansa hit the floor with Harry, watches her arms around him, and feels strangely empty for having seen it.

Jon signals for another drink. It’s going to be a long night, and he needs all the fortitude he can get.

* * *

Sansa is dancing with her sister for all of half a song before Arya starts in on her.

“I saw you talking to Jon earlier.”

“Thanks for the update, stalker.” Sansa gives her a twirl. “I saw you talking to Jaime Lannister, too. Does that mean you _looooooove_ him?”

“Ew.” Arya wrinkles her nose as they hook arms and skip in a rhythmless circle. Most unbecoming, many of the older women in attendance would say if they weren’t over their heads in sherry. “No, but Jaime Lannister knows better than to touch me flirtatiously. I’d sweep the leg, Johnny.”

“Sweeping the leg is too tame for your temper. You’d hit him with the chair.”

Arya’s laugh is loud and infectious. “Regardless. Sansa, I’ve seen you with Harry once tonight, and that was only because he got all testosterone-y over you talking to Jon. That’s the only reason he’s paid you the slightest bit of attention, because you’re _Harry’s_ toy, not Jon’s, and he freaked.”

Sansa allows Arya to dip her, but frowns all the same. “I’m not anybody’s toy.”

“Harry thinks you are,” Arya points out, not unkindly; just honestly. “He hardly treats you better than Joffrey did. Lucky thing _he’s_ not here, by the way, or I would’ve killed him before cocktail hour, and wouldn’t _that_ just ruin the wedding? Look, whatever,” she continues before Sansa can butt in, “my point is that Jon is just as nuts about you as you are about him, which you would know by now if you bothered to pay attention.”

“I am not nuts about Jon—” Sansa protests, but Arya stops her with one expert roll of her eyes.

“Sansa, please, I used to read your diary.”

Sansa spins her sister out and gapes at her when she pulls her back in. “You _what_?”

“Calm down, it’s been ten years.”

“I have not been nuts about Jon for ten years.”

“Maybe not explicitly,” Arya allows as they begin to waltz across the floor. “Maybe it goes dormant from time to time. But you’re crazy about him, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lie to my face about it.”

Sansa presses her lips together, determined not to say anything. Arya can smell a lie from a mile away; it would do no good to try to placate her, no matter how it worked with everyone else. Even then, Sansa’s not convinced it’s been working on anybody. The rest of them are simply content to let it go. But that’s not Arya, and never has been.

“Sansa, you’re my sister, and I love you. No matter what,” Arya assures her. She knows how Sansa can doubt anyone with a kind word, so she’s sure to shove the kind words in her face at every opportunity to get her accustomed to the feeling. “I think you deserve to be treated like a queen. Jon already treats you that way. I wouldn’t say a word if I didn’t see the way you look at him. But really—one of you pushes, the other pulls. One of you turns left, and so does the other. You know I hate this sappy shite, but you navigate towards each other. It’s like you’re each the center of the other’s universe and you can only move if the other’s still spinning.”

“I don’t know if that holds up logically.”

“Love isn’t logical, you twat.” Arya spins so that they’re waltzing in a new direction. “Not until you open your eyes and see where it’s been all along. You’ve got to accept it for it to make sense.”

“When did you get so smart?” Sansa marvels.

Arya shrugs as though the answer is obvious. “When Gendry showed up and I pulled my head out of my own arse. It was easy for us after that. People always say that love makes you crazy, but I don’t think so. With Gendry, everything suddenly made sense. I felt like I was home.”

“God, Arya.” Maybe it’s just that she’s five glasses of champagne into the night, but Sansa feels her eyes mist. “You’re about to make me cry.”

“Well, you’re a sap.” Arya grins, and dips her again.

* * *

Jon can’t stop watching her. He’s in the middle of a conversation with Ned, with Robb, with Theon, and his eyes keep wandering. It’s a wonder none of them notice how far his head is from sport and business chat. Bran seems to know something’s amiss—that kid doesn’t raise his eyebrows pointedly for just anything—but he’s quiet and pragmatic by nature, and only smiles rather infuriatingly when Jon asks him what he’s staring at.

“What are _you_ staring at?” Bran says, although to Jon it sounds an awful lot like “Checkmate, perv.”

“Nothing,” Jon lies, and tears his eyes from Sansa, who’s back at the bar with Arya, Margaery, and a gaggle of their female friends. In his defense, she’d been laughing, and he never could ignore her smile.

Bran only murmurs an “mhmm” and leaves it be.   

Years later, Jon wouldn’t be able to say why such a seemingly inconsequential comment as “mhmm” tips him over the edge. Of all the things that could be said on the subject, “mhmm” shouldn’t even register as a blip on the radar. Jon’s heard it all—from Robb, from Arya, from Sam, and even from Theon on occasion—but none of it had stirred such a feeling in his gut as Bran’s knowing, almost sanctimonious “mhmm.”

It’s enough to drive a man mad, which is precisely what must have happened because the next thing Jon knows, he’s left Bran behind and is making his way to the bar. He’s utterly mad and more than a bit tipsy, so he puts his hand to Sansa’s lower back and asks if she’d like to dance.

“I knew I’d get you,” Sansa says with a grin, and takes the hand he offers. Hers is warm and his is rough and neither of them is quite prepared for the feeling.

Jon has always been two left feet and no rhythm whatsoever. Sansa had tried to teach him to dance when they were in secondary school, but she made him nervous and he never got the hang of it. She remembers well enough; her free hand goes to his shoulder and his to her waist, and their joined hands intertwine. She shoots him an encouraging smile.

“No sweaty palms this time,” she says as they start a slow rotation.

“Give it time,” Jon chuckles—shakily, he might add, but he pretends Sansa doesn’t notice. He meets her eye and sees that her mascara is smudged and her eyes a little bloodshot. Her braid is mussed. He’d like to muss it up more. “I told you how beautiful you look, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Sansa drops her gaze to look at his loosened tie. God, but does he make her blush. Why is it that she can’t get her own date to pay attention to her, but then there’s Jon and it’s like… well, she doesn’t know. Her mind is clouded with alcohol and the faint scent of Jon’s cologne. He smells all at once of pine and woodsmoke and crisp winter air. The breath that flutters across her lips is stained with wine, but she doesn’t doubt his every word.

“Sansa…” Jon pauses when he glances over her shoulder. Harry is across the room—always across the room, never at Sansa’s side where he should be if he weren’t the biggest idiot Jon’s ever known, a fact which is only exacerbated when he catches Harry whispering in a Stone sister’s ear.

Sansa looks up and over her shoulder to follow Jon’s line of sight. She sees what he does, but turns away almost immediately.

“I get it, Jon,” she mumbles to his collar. Disappointment sweeps into her gut, but it’s not for Harry; it’s for herself, for thinking he wouldn’t make her look stupid, no matter how little she cared. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know I said I wouldn’t bother you about it, but…” Jon shakes his head. “Sansa, I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

She says nothing, and for once Jon can’t let it go. He can’t bear to see her unhappy. It’s not his business, he tells himself; but he’s tired of letting others be responsible for Sansa’s happiness when this is the result. Her heart breaks just to get broken again.

“Sansa.” Her name smells like red wine on his whisper. She can’t avoid whatever he’s going to say, so she lifts her gaze once more. His eyes search her face so intently that she thinks he can see right through her. “Why are you with him?”

She takes one soft, shuddering breath, but it’s not enough to keep her eyes from glistening. She can only shrug one shoulder and blink the tears away. “Because he once paid attention to me for fifteen whole minutes?”

“San…” Jon pulls her closer. Her hand has moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his curls. “You know you deserve more than that.”

“Nobody deserves anything,” Sansa retorts, hating how childish she sounds but unable to help it. “Things just happen and you deal with them or you don’t.”

“That’s what you think?” Jon wants to know, but his question is for naught. He can see it in her face, how much she believes it. There are a million things wrong with tonight—not least of all the fact that Sansa’s here with someone else, just another guy too stupid to know what he’s got before he throws away his chance—but Jon can’t stand to have her in his arms while she tells him that she doesn’t deserve better.  

“Alright,” he says, more to himself than to Sansa. He’s emboldened by drink and the feel of her fingers in his hair. She’s so close he can feel her heartbeat through her dress, through his jacket, and he wants to make it go wild and he wants to be honest. For once, he wants to tell her what he’s been too thick-headed with self-doubt to say.

So he pulls her closer, impossibly closer, and whispers in her ear, “If that’s what you think, that it all just happens for nothing, then… I want to be with you, Sansa. _I_ want you. And, god, but I think you should know that by now. So are you going to deal with it or not?”

“You—what?” Sansa jerks back, just far enough to look at him in shock. Her eyes are huge, pupils blown wide with the feel of his breath on her skin. “Jon, god, how much have you had to drink?”

“Enough to tell you the truth.” He rests his forehead against hers, damn anybody who’s watching. She’s had to watch Harry all night, hasn’t she? Let them see her cherished. For once, just this once. “I’m not drunk, San. I’m not lying to you. Trust me, when I tell you how much I want you, I’m only kicking myself for not telling you sooner. For not telling you every day.”

Sansa could kiss him. Now, here, in the middle of the dance floor for anyone to see if only they had a mind to look. Her hand untangles from his to rest on his chest, over the hammering of his heart. “Jon…”

He doesn’t expect her to reciprocate—at least, not in so many words. Sansa isn’t one to bear her heart. She used to be. Jon remembers that girl, whose romantic dreams were crushed by a string of bad relationships with worse men who laughed at her or pitied her or thought her foolish for wanting so ardently to be loved. He demands nothing from her, but the shuddering sound of her voice when she says his name is enough, is everything.

“D’you think anyone would notice if we just… disappeared?” he asks.

Sansa swallows a laugh. “Everyone would notice.”  

He nudges her chin with his knuckles. “I think we should disappear, anyway.”

“Well, yes, that goes without question.”

* * *

Never before has Jon felt his money well-spent when he has to shell out for a hotel room at one of these lavish events. But when he shuts the door behind Sansa, he thinks he’s never been more fiscally responsible.

“Nice digs,” she remarks conversationally. It shouldn’t make Jon pant like a dog when she kicks her shoes off in the middle of the suite, but he has to undo his tie to regulate his breathing.

“Thanks, I decorated it myself.”

“Your taste is simultaneously impeccable and tacky.”

“Well…” Jon crosses the room to catch her from behind. His arm wraps around her waist and his nose nudges her ear. “I’d say it’s mostly impeccable.”

Sansa turns her face into his. “You can shut up with the romancing and kiss me whenever you like.”

It’s too much to resist, especially when her mouth is only half an inch from his. Jon meets her in the middle, and they take each other’s lips in one short, harried breath of anticipation and want and pure, sweet relief.

His hands slide to her hips so he can turn her gently, so she’s wrapped in his arms and her chest is pressed tight to his. For all that he’s imagined, never once was it this good. Never could he have imagined that she’d bite his lip to part them, that she would moan when his hands swept down her back, that she would stand on her toes and run her hands everywhere, everywhere…

She’s never been handled so carefully, never made to feel delicate and desired at the same time. Jon’s mouth is all eager and soft insistence, his touch canvassing across her body, looking for more and leaving no space unexplored. His hands move to the zipper of her dress and his lips leave hers for her chin, her jawline, her neck. It’s as though he needs every inch of her, and Sansa has never felt so needed. It’s always been demand. Joffrey, Harry, and everyone in between… They’d kissed her like they were doing her a favor, as if they expected her to work for it. Jon kisses her like it’s effortless. Jon kisses her like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do.

Jon walks her backwards to the bed while she strips him of his jacket and her fingers work at the buttons on his shirt. He kicks his shoes off and Sansa laughs when he trips into her. He swallows the sound when his mouth takes hers again, and his fingers trace the sharp lines of her shoulders.

When Sansa’s back hits the bed, she grabs Jon by the shirt collar and tugs him over her. He grins against her lips. “Eager, are you?”

“Absolutely.”

Jon’s hands push up her skirt. “Good, so am I.”

Sansa had worried about runs in her tights but only giggles when Jon tears them from her legs. He shrugs out of his shirt and tosses it aside, kissing her all the while. Her legs lock around his hips and pull him against her, eliciting a groan that he stifles in the slope of her neck. His mouth is open on her skin and her breathy moans make him shudder with unthinkable pleasure.

“Jon.” Her nails are digging into his shoulders in a delicious sort of pain. “I want you to— _oh_.”  

He sucks a mark onto her neck. “Want me to what? Tell me what you want, Sansa.” He runs his nose up her throat, breathing in the fruity tang of her soap, and nips her jaw. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

And he will—god, she could ask anything of him, and he’d relent without question or doubt. He’d live a chaste life if it meant giving into her every wish tonight.  

Her hands stray to his belt buckle. “I want you to touch me.”

Jon wouldn’t care to say that he whimpers, but it’s an involuntary reaction at her words. His hand goes between her legs and he says, “Love, I was only waiting for you to ask.”

He tongues her collarbone while he touches her, gaze fixed upon her face. A blush is creeping across her skin, her eyes shut against what he’s making her feel. She tastes of sugar and sweat and he could absolutely devour her. He’s overtaken by a sudden wave of possessiveness, an irrepressible urge to have her all to himself. He’d give her the world if only she’d take it from his hands.

“Sansa,” he murmurs as he works at the spot on her neck that makes her shiver. His fingers curl inside her and her back arches. “Sansa, tell me that no one’s ever made you feel this way before. You’re mine, please tell me that you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” Her acquiescence is immediate. She cards her fingers through his hair and tugs his mouth to hers. It’s a hungry, sloppy kiss full of want and need and healing. “I’m yours, Jon, do whatever you want with me.”

He catches her chin with his free hand. “Just let me love you.”

Sansa’s eyes fly open while Jon drags his mouth down her neck, her sternum, her stomach. He ducks his head beneath her skirt and his tongue joins his fingers. Her gasp of pleasure is matched by his own. “Babe, you taste of heaven…”

No one has touched her as Jon touches her. No one’s made her grip the sheets and moan with genuine, reckless abandon. No one has made her feel so wanted, so unselfishly giving to her what she is too embarrassed to ask for. Jon can read her like a book. He is giving and giving and giving, until she feels like nothing but the most well-loved puddle of former human flesh in the middle of his hotel bed.

He can undo her, and yet she has never felt so whole. 

His name is one long, tortured moan between her lips, and he whispers hers reverently back. He crawls back up her body, trailing kisses to every corner he might have missed in his eagerness to taste her.

“San, I’m mad about you,” he mumbles, near spent but alive at the feel of her beneath him. His fingers twist into her tangled braid. “I’m going to tell you until you’re sick of me.”

“I’ve waited too long to be sick of you yet.” Sansa presses her lips to the hollow at the base of his throat. She breathes him in, and he smells of her. “Ask Arya, she’ll tell you she read about you in my diary ten years ago.”

“Oh?’ Jon quirks an eyebrow while she toys with his belt. “Might I have a look at that?”

She snorts. “Fat chance, lover. I’m taking that diary to my grave.”

“Mmm, never mind, call me ‘lover’ again, won’t you?”

“Anytime—” Sansa adjusts her position to better bite his earlobe— “ _lover_.”

Jon growls, a sound low in his throat, and rolls to his back, pulling her on top of him. She laughs. “So predatory, Mr. Snow.”

“I rather like it when you call me that, too.” Jon’s hands move up her waist to her chest. “Why don’t you call me that while I feel you up?”

“Ah, what a gentleman you are, _Mr. Snow_ —” This time, it’s Sansa’s turn to swallow his laughter when she catches his lips with her own.

* * *

**ROBB [9:53PM]:** _Jon, what the hell_  
**ROBB [9:53PM]:** _Dude_  
**ROBB [9:55PM]:** _Mate, I swear, if you’ve shacked up with my sister, I’m going to kill you with my bare hands_

 **ARYA [10:02PM]:** _Robb’s on the warpath. You remember you guys are sharing a hotel room, right? I swiped his key card, so you’re welcome. Tell Sansa she’s welcome, too._  
**ARYA [10:03PM]:** _Tell her when she’s got her clothes on, though. I don’t want you two talking about me in any way whatsoever while you’re starkers._  
**ARYA [10:06PM]:** _Fuckin’ finally, btw_

 **MARGAERY [10:47PM]:** _Darling, honestly, if you’re going to disappear on me, the least you could do is send a courtesy text letting me know you’re getting laid. Did my grandmother’s etiquette lessons teach you nothing?_  
**MARGAERY [10:49PM]:** _Details at brunch tomorrow and all is forgiven. ;)_  
**MARGAERY [10:50PM]:** _Also, I hate to say I told you so, but… Oh. Wait. No, I don’t._  
**MARGAERY [10:50PM]:** _I TOLD YOU SO_


End file.
